Verses for the Dead

by Douglas Preston

  The other man in the sauna, sitting near the door, looked up, frowned in brief surprise, and glanced down again.

  Pickett recovered immediately. He knew this agent had a reputation for being epically eccentric. That was why he’d chosen not only to change up the man’s duty orders, but this location to discuss them. In his experience, atypical situations—such as meeting naked in a sauna—helped throw challenging subjects off balance, giving him the upper hand.

  He’d let things play out.

  Before speaking, he picked up the wooden dipper from the water barrel, filled it, then poured it over the sauna stones. A satisfyingly thick gush of steam wafted through the room.

  “Agent Pendergast,” he said in a level voice.

  The man in black nodded. “Sir.”

  “There are several banks of lockers beyond the showers. Would you care to change out of your clothes?”

  “That won’t be necessary. The heat agrees with me.”

  Pickett looked the man up and down. “Take a seat, then.”

  Agent Pendergast plucked a towel from a pile near the door, walked over, wiped the bench next to Pickett free of moisture, then folded it neatly and sat down.

  Pickett was careful not to show any surprise. “First,” he said, “I want you to accept my condolences on the death of Howard Longstreet. He was a superb intelligence director, and I understand something of a mentor to you.”

  “He was the finest man I ever knew, save one.”

  This was not the reply Pickett had expected, but he nodded and stuck to his agenda. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you for some time. I hope you won’t mind my being blunt.”

  “On the contrary. Unlike knives, blunt conversations make for the quickest work.”

  Pickett looked at Pendergast’s face for any hint of insubordination, but the agent’s expression was utterly neutral. He went on. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn that, in my few months as head of the New York Field Office, I’ve heard a lot about you—both official and unofficial. To put it frankly, you have a reputation of being a lone wolf—but one who enjoys an exceptionally high percentage of successful cases.”

  Pendergast accepted this compliment with a little nod, such as one might make to a partner at the beginning of a waltz. All his movements, like his speech, were measured and catlike, as if he were stalking prey.

  Now Pickett delivered the backhand of the compliment. “You also have one of the highest rates of suspects not going to trial because, in the FBI vernacular, they were deceased during the course of investigation.”

  Another graceful nod.

  “Executive Associate Director Longstreet was not only your mentor. He was also your guardian angel in the Bureau. From what I understand, he seems to have kept the inquiry boards off you; defended your more unorthodox actions; shielded you from blowback. But now that Longstreet is gone, the top brass is in something of a quandary—when it comes to dealing with you, I mean.”

  By now, Pickett had expected to see a degree of concern flickering in the agent’s eyes. There was none. He reached for the dipper, poured more water on the stones. The temperature in the sauna rose to a toasty 180 degrees.

  Pendergast straightened his tie, refolded one leg over the other. He did not even appear to be sweating.

  “What we’ve decided to do, in short, is give you rein to continue with what you do best: pursue psychologically unorthodox killers, using the methods that have brought you success. With a few caveats, naturally.”

  “Naturally,” Pendergast said.

  “Which brings us to your next assignment. Just this morning, a human heart was found left on a grave in Miami Beach. The grave belonged to one Elise Baxter, who strangled herself with a bedsheet in Katahdin, Maine, eleven years ago. On the grave—”

  “Why was Ms. Baxter buried in Florida?” Pendergast interrupted smoothly.

  Pickett paused. He did not like to be interrupted. “She lived in Miami. She was in Maine on vacation. Her family had her body flown home to be interred.” He paused to make sure there were no other interjections, then he picked up the sheet of plastic-enclosed paper. “On the grave was a note. It read—” he consulted the paper— “‘Dear Elise, I am so sorry for what happened to you. The thought of how you must have suffered has haunted me for years. I hope you will accept this gift with my sincere condolences. So let us go then, you and I—others are awaiting gifts as well.’ It was signed, ‘Mister Brokenhearts.’”

  Pickett paused to let this sink in.

  “Very obliging of Mister Brokenhearts,” Pendergast said after a moment, “although the gift does seem in rather poor taste.”

  Pickett frowned through the sweat gathering around his eyes, but he still caught not the slightest whiff of insubordination. The man sat there, cool as a cucumber despite the heat.

  “The heart was found by a cemetery visitor at around seven forty-five this morning. At ten thirty, the body of a woman was discovered beneath some shrubbery on the Miami Beach Boardwalk, about ten miles to the south. Her heart had been cut out. Miami Beach PD is still working the scene, but we already know one thing: the victim’s heart was the one found on the grave.”

  Now, for the first time, Pickett saw something flash in Pendergast’s eyes—a gleam, like a diamond being turned toward the light.

  “We don’t know the connection between Elise Baxter and the woman killed today. But it seems evident there must be one. And if this mention of ‘others’ in the note can be trusted, more killings might be in the offing. Elise Baxter died in Maine, so even though it was a suicide, interstate jurisdiction means we’re involved.” He put the piece of paper down on the bench and slid it toward Pendergast. “You’re heading for Miami to investigate this murder, first thing tomorrow morning.”

  The gleam remained in Pendergast’s eyes. “Excellent. Most excellent.”

  Pickett’s fingers tightened on the sheet as Pendergast reached for it. “There’s just one thing. You’ll be working with a partner.”

  Pendergast went still.

  “I mentioned there would be a few caveats. This is the biggest. Howard Longstreet isn’t around to watch your back anymore, Agent Pendergast, or to bring you home after you’ve gone off the reservation. The Bureau can’t ignore your remarkable record of success. But neither can it ignore the high mortality rate you racked up achieving it. So we’re partnering you up, which of course is normal FBI protocol. I’ve assigned you one of our sharpest young agents. You’ll be lead agent on the case, naturally, but he’ll assist—every step of the way. He’ll function as both a sounding board…and, if necessary, a gut check. And who knows? You may come to appreciate the arrangement.”

  “I should think that my record speaks for itself,” Pendergast said, in the same silky antebellum drawl. “I function best on my own. A partner can interfere with that process.”

  “You seemed to work well enough with that New York City cop, what’s his name—D’Agosta?”

  “He is exceptional.”

  “The man I’m giving you is also exceptional. More to the point, it’s a deal breaker. Either you accept a partner, or we give the case to someone else.” And let you twist in the wind until you come around, Pickett thought privately.

  During this brief speech, an expression had come over Pendergast’s features: a most peculiar expression, one that Pickett could not, for all his long psychological experience, identify. For a moment, the only sound was the hissing of the sauna stones.

  “I’ll take your silence as assent. And now’s as good a time as any to meet your new partner. Agent Coldmoon, would you mind joining us?”

  At this, the silent young man sitting in the far corner stood up, snugged the towel around his waist, and—bathed in a sheen of sweat—came over to stand before them. His skin was a light olive brown, and his features were fine and, in some respects, almost Asiatic. He glanced dispassionately at the men seated before him. Trim and erect, he looked almost a model agent. Only his hair—jet black, worn
rather long, and parted in the middle—did not fit the image. Pickett smiled inwardly. His pairing of these two was a masterstroke. Pendergast would be in for a surprise.

  “This is Special Agent Coldmoon,” Pickett said. “He’s been with the agency eight years, and already he’s distinguished himself in both the Cyber Division and the Criminal Investigative Division. The fitness reports submitted by his superiors have never been short of exemplary. Eighteen months ago, he was awarded the FBI Shield of Bravery for meritorious service during an undercover operation in Philadelphia. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he collects as many commendations as you have. I think you’ll find him a quick study.”

  Agent Coldmoon remained expressionless under this panegyric. Meanwhile, Pickett noticed, the strange look had left Pendergast’s face, to be replaced with a genuine smile.

  “Agent Coldmoon,” Pendergast said, extending his hand. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Likewise.” Coldmoon shook the proffered hand.

  “If your credentials are anything like ADC Pickett here describes,” Pendergast continued, “I’m sure you will prove a great asset to what promises to be a most interesting case.”

  “I’ll do all I can to assist,” Coldmoon said.

  “Then we shall get along famously,” Pendergast said. He glanced back at Pickett. Except for a single bead of moisture on Pendergast’s forehead, the heat didn’t seem to have affected him in the slightest: the man’s shirt and suit looked as crisp as ever. “We leave for Miami first thing tomorrow morning, you say?”

  Pickett nodded. “Ticket and a summary of your orders are waiting on your desk as we speak.”

  “In that case, I had better prepare. Thank you, sir, for considering me for this case. Agent Coldmoon, I shall see you on the morrow.” He nodded at each in turn, then stood and exited the sauna—with the same light, easy movements with which he had entered.

  Both men watched the sauna door close behind him. Pickett waited a full minute before speaking again. Then, when he was sure Pendergast was not coming back, he cleared his throat. “Okay,” he said to Coldmoon. “You’ve just heard me outline your cover. You’re going to play second fiddle on this case.”

  Coldmoon nodded.

  “Any questions about what your real assignment is regarding Pendergast?”

  “None.”

  “Very good. I’ll expect regular reports.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That will be all.”

  Without another word, Special Agent Coldmoon turned and left the sauna. Pickett picked up another dipperful of water, poured it over the cherry-colored stones, then leaned back once again, sighing contentedly as another blast of steam filled the cedar-lined room.

  3

  MRS. TRASK WHEELED the tea cart carefully down the shadowy hall leading from the kitchens of the mansion at 891 Riverside Drive, New York City. It was unusual, serving tea at this time of the afternoon, not quite three o’clock—normally, Pendergast preferred it late rather than early. But such had been his request, along with a lavish presentation: instead of the usual ascetic green tea and ginger biscuits, today there were Bath buns with lemon curd, scones, clotted cream, madeleines—even miniature Battenberg cakes. As a result, it was the first time in ages she’d had to serve afternoon tea on a cart instead of a simple silver tray. She felt fairly certain this was all meant to please his ward, Constance—despite the fact she ate like a bird and would probably touch little of it.

  Indeed, since their rather abrupt return to the mansion just over a week before, Pendergast had seemed especially attentive to Constance. Even Proctor, Pendergast’s stoic chauffeur-cum-bodyguard, had mentioned it to Mrs. Trask. Pendergast had been more than usually talkative, drawing Constance out on her favorite subjects late into the night. He had assisted with her long-term task of researching the complex and—it seemed—often mysterious Pendergast family tree. He had even professed an interest in her latest project: a terrarium devoted to the propagation of imperiled carnivorous plants.

  Mrs. Trask moved from the corridor into the reception hall, the wheels of the tea cart creaking over the marble floor. From the direction of the library, she could hear the low tones of Pendergast and Constance in conversation. Just this quiet sound gladdened her heart. She didn’t know why Constance had left so suddenly for India last December, or what had occasioned Pendergast’s own recent trip to bring her home. That affair was between Pendergast and his ward: Mrs. Trask was simply pleased the household was together again. And though even that was about to be interrupted—with Pendergast’s abrupt news that he was bound for Florida—Mrs. Trask took comfort in knowing the journey was merely business.

  It was true she rather disapproved of Pendergast’s “business”—but that was something she kept to herself.

  Now she wheeled the cart into the library, with its deep mahogany tones; cabinets laden with rare fossils, minerals, and artifacts; and walls of leather-bound books rising to a coffered ceiling. A large fire was blazing on the hearth, and two wing chairs had been pulled up close to it. They were empty, however, and Mrs. Trask searched for the room’s occupants. As her eyes adjusted to the flickering light, she made them out. They were together in a far corner, heads almost touching as they bent over something of evident interest. Of course—it must be the new terrarium. Even now, Mrs. Trask could hear Constance speaking of it, her contralto voice just audible over the crackle of the flames. “…I find it ironic that Nepenthes campanulata—which for fifteen years was believed extinct—is now merely considered threatened, while Nepenthes aristolochioides, then barely recognized as a species, is presently critically endangered.”

  “Ironic indeed,” Pendergast murmured.

  “Note the peculiar morphology of the aristolochioides. The peristome is almost vertical—rare among pitcher plants. Its feeding mechanism is most interesting. I’m still awaiting a shipment of native insects from Sumatra, but local rhinoceros beetles seem a satisfactory diet. Would you care to feed it?” And Constance held out a pair of forceps, almost a foot long, which glinted in the firelight, with a wriggling beetle at the end.

  There was the briefest of hesitations. “I’d much prefer to watch your more practiced hand at work.”

  Mrs. Trask chose this moment to clear her throat and trundle the tea cart forward. Both occupants turned toward her.

  “Ah, Mrs. Trask!” Pendergast said, turning from the glass-walled terrarium and approaching her. “Punctual as always.”

  “Rather more than punctual,” Constance said, coming up behind Pendergast, her violet eyes scanning the cart. “It’s just gone three. Aloysius, did you request this cornucopia?”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Are we having the Trojan army for tea?”

  “I’m giving myself a sending-off party.”

  Constance frowned.

  “Besides,” Pendergast went on, sitting down and helping himself to a madeleine, “you look thinner, subsisting on that monastic diet.”

  “I ate very well, thank you.” Constance took a seat in the opposite wing chair, bobbed hair swinging at the motion. “You know, I really wish you’d let me come to Florida. This case that’s suddenly been dropped in your lap—it sounds intriguing.”

  “And I really wish I had not had a partner forced upon me. But there it is. Constance, I promise you shall be both my sounding board and my oracle, à la distance.”

  Mrs. Trask chuckled as she poured out two cups of tea. “Can you imagine, our Mr. Pendergast with a partner underfoot? It’ll never do. When it comes to working with others, he’s a lost cause—if you’ll pardon my saying so.”

  “I’ll pardon your saying so,” Pendergast replied, “if you’ll be good enough to bundle a few of these madeleines in with the rest of my packing. I understand that certain airplane food can be hazardous—if not worse.”

  “Is he indeed a lost cause?” Constance said, turning to Mrs. Trask. “One can always hope.”

  Mrs. Trask had already turne
d to leave, and so she missed the look that—so fleetingly—passed between Pendergast and the woman seated opposite him.

  4

  AT PRECISELY TWENTY minutes to seven that same evening, Special Agent Pendergast—having checked into the Fontainebleau Hotel and ensured that the La Mer Presidential Suite he’d booked was to his liking—strolled through the echoing lobby in the direction of the Atlantic. The sprawling, marbled space—with its “Stairway to Nowhere,” flocks of chattering guests, and labyrinthine entrances and exits—felt more like a first-class departure lounge than a hotel. Glass doors whispered open as he approached, and he exited into the expansive grounds. Navigating among several sparkling pools, he passed bars, spas, and lush plantings on his way to the South Tropez Lawn. Sunbathers, glancing up at him through their Oakleys or Tom Fords, were not surprised by the black suit he wore; they assumed he was some sort of hotel lackey headed to one of the private poolside cabanas. Other butlers in black could be seen making their way among the cabanas, bringing their guests everything from fruit smoothies to fifteen-hundred-dollar bottles of Dom Pérignon.

  Crossing the lawn, Pendergast strolled along a path that wound through manicured grounds until it reached a set of steps, which rose to intersect a walkway of wooden planks, lined with royal palms. This was the Miami Beach Boardwalk, a pedestrian boulevard that hugged the oceanfront from Indian Beach Park down almost to the port of Miami.